


Misericordia

by rain_sleet_snow



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He calls it not murder, but mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misericordia

Master Blayce potters around his rooms. The candles are lit, casting an imperfect, dull light on the cluttered surroundings, on the stacks of books and papers covered in his scrupulous spidery handwriting. An empty plate and goblet sit on a tray just outside the door, ready to be removed by one of the City of the Gods maids.

He is dressed plainly, and not fashionably. He could be any man in the street, save for the silver trim of his robe, which declares him to be from the university, and he does not wear that when he goes on his little excursions- all the clothing from those is burnt, in any case, for he must leave no trace. Soon everyone would know what he did on those quiet nights when he seemed to be working late in his room, and when an utterly forgettable man in utterly forgettable clothes walked the city streets, and then, they would approve. But for now- for now, it was best to retain the cloak of anonymity and utmost caution, even if the Provost’s Guard were unlikely to concern themselves with investigation of the disappearances of beggars and cripples. Why would they care? Such people were a burden to society, had miserable, short lives anyway, and mattered to no-one. He had a use for them, and they did not lose by it. A deeper shadow in the darkness and a brief moment of numbness; a clean death, marked by candles and low chanting, and a use after death, a more important role than ever they had in life. They would be his evidence that what he was doing was worthwhile.

And they felt no pain- of that, he was certain. He made absolutely sure of it; they had to have some reward, didn’t they? Ending their pitiful lives in a decent and dignified manner was really the best he could do- and it would be so awkward, if they screamed and struggled.

Tonight he goes out for a little stroll, just stretching his legs. Tonight, he wanders the dark streets, his feet silent on the cobbles and his figure only dimly lit by the sliver of moon. It is not that everyone else is asleep, but that nobody pays him any attention. Taverns still heave with folk drinking and dicing, and the Provost’s Guard still patrol, though rather desultorily in this most law-abiding of cities, for who would break the law in a place where mages may track your every move?

Blayce almost chuckles at the very thought.

No beggars reach out to snag the edges of his cloak, none call feebly to him for alms. They have heard the stories of the disappearances by night, the corpses that are never discovered; the men and women and a few children who retire to their own secret sleeping places, and are never found again. This looks like an ordinary man, but it is dark now, and there is a shadow on him. It’s no premonition, only gut instinct, nothing they could take to the Dogs, but they know. Oh yes, they know.

For the past two weeks, Blayce has been tracking a young man, perhaps nineteen years of age but scrawny and underfed. Once a soldier in the regular army, he has lost both legs to the knee in the Battle of Port Legann, and though his sister and mother worked to support him, they died of unicorn fever. He lives on the streets of the City of the Gods now, begging crusts. It is not a dignified life for an old soldier, it would be merciful to end it, thinks Blayce. He likes to deal in mercy. 

By now, Blayce has mapped out the young man’s habits, his hideouts, and he knows where he will find the man asleep and off-guard. He takes a meandering path to this place and treads down the dark alleyway.

The man is not asleep. It does not matter. He has no time to cry out or to give any sign that anything is wrong, and who would listen anyway? The muted fire of the Gift wraps round him, nose and mouth and throat, pouring inside and choking him in one silent second. It does not kill him – that comes later – but he will say nothing and know nothing. He might as well be dead.

Blayce wraps the young man in a cloak and carries him back to the university. He knows what he will do or say if he is stopped; the young man will simply become a very drunken cousin – but he has only been stopped once. He was carrying a child in his arms, dressed in an oversized tunic he acquired for the purpose. He told the guards that she was his niece, and that she was asleep, that he was taking her home. Most of this was true, in a sense; his favourite kind of lie.

He will not be stopped tonight. He knows the patrols around here by now, and how to avoid them.

Back to his rooms, and the clothes are burnt, both his and the man’s. That is the convenient thing about being a mage: no-one questions a slight smell of scorching, they only believe that an experiment has gone a little wrong, and the trace is too irregular to arouse suspicion. It’s hardly as if he does this every night.

He performs the ritual. His rooms are so far out of the way that nobody notices, and in any case he has special wards on them, to protect his neighbours from his non-existent explosive experiments.

There is blood; there always is, thick and rose-red and coppery, and really, it is distasteful but necessary. He does not much like the blood, but it is a by-product of the process, and if the means justifies then ends then the collateral must be justified too. No price is too great for this process. Were he maimed, terminally sick or feeble with age, Blayce would happily give himself up to this cause, of the spirits of the dead becoming the engines of life, serving the purposes of the living. He would hate the necessity to share his formulae, his carefully crafted spells, but it would be in the service of his great work. It would be worth it.

This night is the last night he must act in secrecy. This occurs to him as he puts the last touches to the last spells, safely enshrining the spirit in the tiny mannequin inscribed with symbols and inlaid with lead, watching in satisfaction as the figurine takes hobbling steps. Tomorrow he will take his research to the Ruling Council of the City of the Gods. Tomorrow, he will be acclaimed. Tomorrow, the world will be at his feet; the other students will bow before him, rather than ignore him, nobles will become his equals; he will have the king’s ear and admiration. He will be great, and all Tortall will know his name. Salmalín- who is Salmalín, really? A tinkerer with theory and hypothesis. Once you get down to the bone, what use is his magic to Tortall? And as for the Wildmage... he thinks she is little more than a loose-living and delusional hedgewitch. She may speak to animals in her whimsy, but he very much doubts they speak back. Wild magic is just a fairy-story.

He loses himself in daydreams, trapping the mannequin in a velvet-lined box. The spirit has nowhere to go, and it will settle down eventually and stop walking around. Dazed by future glory, he fastidiously removes all evidence of his night’s business, and goes to sleep.

The next day, he goes to the Ruling Council of the City of the Gods. At first, they pay little attention to this excitable young student with his research. He is very advanced in his understanding of magical theory, he has gone beyond regular classes to attempting his own research, but not terribly interesting- colourless and fidgety. This opinion is revised a few minutes into his speech.

They listen, incredulously, as this man eagerly outlines murder and the enslavement of the spirit for the profit of the living, as he spreads out diagrams and notes on the table before them so that they may understand. He shows them what he has done. He grows animated in the description of death. He is proud, so proud, of his murders, except that he calls them not _murders_ but _mercies_. 

They cast him from the City, and the look of utter bafflement on his face stays with them forever.


End file.
